Hillary_Tail of the Dog (34 page)

While the water boiled, Hillary looked through one of the cabinets and pulled out a large bowl. With the bowl in her hand, she walked back to her shivering, suffering mother. Her eyes were still close, but the woman could sense Hillary near her. Though she was just a foot away, her mother could barely hear her humming.

Hillary squatted down near her mother’s feet. She began shoveling the pieces of flesh and the bloodied tidbits of her mother’s arms from the floor into the bowl. As she stood up, Hillary grabbed at some of the remains that had fallen upon her mother’s lap.

Feeling Hillary’s bony fingers on her lap, her mother gasped. Involuntarily, her eyes flew open. She saw the bowl full of, well, herself, the bloodied bits and pieces darkening to a sickening reddish-brown color. She turned her head, lunged forward and threw up all over the floor.

“Oh, good!” Hillary exclaimed, “you’ll have more room for my special dish!”

Her mother continued to puke until dry heaves racked her body. She shook even more violently as she shook her head wildly.

“No, no, I won’t do it...I won’t do it,” she protested hysterically.

“Nonsense,” Hillary yelled, “don’t you remember what you used to tell me when I was little? How I’d have to clean my plate. You have to practice what you preach.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” she begged frantically. She couldn’t,
wouldn’t
...Hillary would just have to kill her.

“It’s not like you’ve never eaten—”

“
SHUT UP, SHUT UP!
” she demanded. She was hysterical. Lightheaded from the blood loss, she attempted to stand up. Hillary placed a hand on her shoulder and shoved her back down violently.

“
SIT DOWN!
” she yelled sternly.

If her mother wanted to, she could have stood up, she might have even been able to run. But she didn’t resist. She didn’t stand and she certainly didn’t run. She knew all too well. Hillary was angry enough. And now she was going to prepare a special meal for them.

She knew better than to cry out, better than to beg for even a modicum of mercy. She thought about using reverse psychology like she used to use when Hillary was a small child:
oh, yes, dear...what a scrumptious meal you’ve prepared. Mmmm, mmmm...I’m going to have seconds....
Somehow she doubted that would work. Her stomach lurched again and she leaned over as if she would throw up again, but nothing came up.

“It’ll be ready soon,” Hillary said cheerfully. “
Don’t get up!
” She glared malignantly at her mother.

Like a grounded child, her mother stayed put on the chair, dreading her life and the moments that would follow. She sat, shaking in terror, resigned to her destiny.

Hillary took the bowl over to the refrigerator, opened the door and pulled out the mayonnaise and an onion. She set everything down on the kitchen counter then grabbed another knife from the butcher block. She pulled out a cutting board and chopped the onion. She scraped them off the board and into the bowl of blood and flesh. She added two heaping spoonfuls of mayonnaise and stirred up her concoction. She sniffed the bowl and smiled. She added a dash of salt and a sprinkle of pepper.
Mmmmm, mmmm
. There was tuna salad, chicken salad, and now,
Kathy salad
, named in honor of her dear old mother. Her stomach rumbled quietly. She couldn’t wait to dig in.

Hillary walked over to the other side of the kitchen where the breadbox was. There were some rolls, some bagels and a loaf of honey wheat bread.

“What d’ya want your salad on? Wheat bread or a roll?” she called out loudly.

Her mother heard her, faintly, but did not reply.

“Wheat bread or a roll?” Hillary shouted angrily.

Again, her mother remained silent.

“Fine…I’ll decide for you. Wheat bread it is.”

Hillary pulled out four slices of bread and proceeded to make two sandwiches, one for her mother and one for herself. She placed them on dishes and carried them over to where her mother was sitting, careful not to step in the vomit. She set the dishes upon the table.

Hillary walked back to the stove, turned it off and prepared two cups of tea using the boiling water from the kettle. She carefully carried the teacups over to the table and set them down by the dishes.

“Now isn’t this nice?” she said loudly.

More silence.

“Dig in, Mom...you wouldn’t want to offend me.”

Her mother sat quietly, trembling hard.

Hillary could feel her patience dwindling and her anger growing. She shoved one of the plates in front of her mother.

“You’re going to drink your tea and eat your sandwich!” she ordered.

Her mother began sobbing louder, but said nothing.

Hillary grabbed her face within her hands and shouted, “
IT’S TIME TO EAT NOW
.”

“
Nooooo,
” her mother muttered, shutting her eyes tightly.

Hillary released her mother’s head, grabbed the sandwich and yelled, “
OPEN YOUR MOUTH....
”

Her mother shook her head wildly, her eyes still tightly closed. Her lips were tucked within her sealed mouth.

Hillary shoved the sandwich to her mother’s mouth. The horrified woman continued to shake her head. Her mouth remained tightly shut, her lips hidden…safe from touching Hillary’s special meal.

“You wanna do this the hard way then?” she shouted.

Hillary paused a moment, waiting for her mother’s cooperation. Her mother steadfastly refused to eat.

“
Fine!
If you want to act like a spoiled child, the hard way it is, then.”

Hillary slammed the sandwich down on the plate and walked back to the butcher block. She pulled out the long carving knife and the kitchen shears, with its razor-sharp alloy steel blades. Enraged, she walked back to her weeping, shivering, pathetic mother.

“Now, you’re sure you wanna do this the hard way?” Hillary shouted, offering her mother one last chance to cooperate—showing unprecedented patience and compassion. She, herself, was taken aback by her hesitation. Her mother’s stubbornness dissipated any lingering traces of humanity she was at least temporarily willing to bestow.

Placing the carving knife on the table near the dish, Hillary placed her fingers within the handle of the scissor and parted the blades. She pulled her mother’s left hand over to her. Her mother gasped through her tightly shut mouth. Her eyes remained closed. She could feel the sharpness of the steel blade on her frail, little pinky finger. The next moment was sheer agony.

Her eyes and mouth no longer closed, she screamed out in pain as she glanced down at her severed finger. Hillary had clipped the tip of it completely off, right at the base of the nail. The pain was intolerable, excruciating—far worse than what she had experienced having her arms shredded.

Hillary grabbed the next finger. Before her mother could beg for her to stop or attempt to pull her hand away, she began clipping the tip off. Being quite a bit thicker than the pinky, it took a greater effort to break through. Each twist and snip made her mother shriek, the intense pain registering in her brain like a hot, burning lightning storm. She wouldn’t be able to tolerate much more.

With her wailing mouth wide open, Hillary grabbed the sandwich and shoved it into her mother’s mouth.

“
Bite it,
” she demanded loudly, through gritted teeth. It sounded like a baneful, raspy whisper to her mother who was in such pain she complied, hoping that Hillary would stop hurting her. She tried not to think about what was in her mouth. The pain provided a good distraction.

“
Now chew!
” Hillary commanded.

It was hard enough having the vile meat in her mouth, but now she had to
chew it.
She couldn’t...she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. It brought back too many horrid memories of when...of when....

Her mother hurled up the remains of her stomach along with the small piece of sandwich that had been housed over her tongue.

“You idiot!” Hillary shouted, grabbing the carving knife from the table. All humanity was lost.

Her mother didn’t feel the first stab, but felt the sharp, piercing pain of the subsequent fourteen. The fifteenth through twenty-second jabs penetrated her mother’s dead, desecrated body.

When she was done, Hillary did something she never did after a kill: she cried. She dropped the knife to the floor, flung her body upon her mother’s bloody mass and sobbed and sobbed.

“
You never said sorry…
” she wept, “
you never even said soorrrrry....
”

A few minutes later, she pulled herself together. She walked upstairs to what used to be her old room. She suppressed the urge to cry again, seeing everything just the way she remembered it. Her once beloved teddy bear was slumped over her pillow, smiling up at her as if greeting an old friend. Hillary pulled off the blood-stained cotton dress she was wearing and flung it over the bear, covering it up. There was no time for nostalgia, no time for regrets.

She walked into the bathroom and took a nice, long shower. The warm water felt good running down her body. She massaged the shampoo in her hair, spreading the lather to the tips of her long hair. She took her time cleaning every inch of her body, as if trying to wash away her sins. At last, she rinsed off and pulled on a robe that was hanging on a hook—her mother’s robe. She wrapped herself in the plush material and used a towel to dry her face and wrap her hair.

She walked to her bedroom to find some clothes to wear. In her closet and dresser drawers her clothes were neatly hung and folded. She wondered why her mother had saved all of her belongings. She had dried her face, yet it was wet again...with her tears.

Angrily, she pulled the towel off her hair and wiped up her tears, swearing to herself that it would be the last time she cried. Why should
she
be upset? No one ever gave a damn about
her
.

She chose some clothes, dressed quickly and ran downstairs, straight to the shopping bag in the foyer. She turned it over, spilling the contents onto the floor and sorting through them until she found what she was looking for.

A smile joining the crazed expression on her face, she studied the piece of paper, reading it over and over again:

Lt. Alan Langford

4238 Washington Ave.

Bethesda, Maryland

Hillary didn’t know whether this was his home address or a business address, but it didn’t matter. She also had his phone number on Dr. Morrison’s phone. One way or another, she would find him. She would find him and repay his kindness.

Still smiling, she stuck the piece of paper into the pocket of her shorts. She stooped down and began refilling the shopping bag. She picked up the bag and headed for the front door. Without looking back, she left the house, walking down the road toward the cab. She was humming Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.”

HILLARY: FLESH AND BLOOD

BOOK TWO

~PROLOGUE~

Everything was quiet in the big, beautiful house on Woodbridge Road in rural Maple Trails, South Carolina. It was nearly two in the morning. Snug in her warm, soft bed, thirteen-year-old Hillary Greyson was fast asleep, dreaming of a boy in her class. A thin smile formed on her face and she involuntarily sighed, a soft, innocent sound.

Her father hovered at the foot of her bed, unbeknownst to the sleeping child.

God, she's so beautiful, so beautiful,
he thought. His right hand was shoved down into the waistband of his flannel pajama pants.

Michael Greyson had been visiting his daughter’s bedroom with increasing frequency for the past three months. He didn’t know why, just that he had grown obsessed with her. She was the most gorgeous girl he had ever seen.

At first, he thought he was experiencing a natural paternal adoration, pride in his amazingly beautiful daughter. But with his increased heart rate, sweaty palms, flushed face and growing erection—especially the growing erection—Michael knew his attraction to his daughter was anything but natural. It disturbed him deeply.

Why was he feeing this way? He had never been attracted to young girls; he thought pedophiles should be put to death. And here he was, lusting after his own child. Not only did that make him a pedophile, but an incestuous one. Maybe all men experienced this with their adolescent daughters—sort of an unspoken taboo—and they just had to suppress their urges.

He began ignoring Hillary. If he couldn’t see her, if she wasn’t around, he wouldn’t feel so abnormally attracted to her. It worked...for a whole forty-one hours. In his bed, beside his wife, his groin ached for her. The more he fought to keep her out of his thoughts, the more thoughts of her—explicitly inappropriate thoughts of her—invaded his mind. He couldn’t control himself. He couldn’t take it any longer.

The first time Michael crept out of bed and walked down the hall to Hillary’s bedroom, he hated himself. He was ashamed of himself not only for being sickly perverted, but also for being so weak, for his lack of willpower. Hillary worshipped the ground he walked on. She had always been his princess, his little girl. How could he betray her this way?

Still, tiptoeing to her bedroom, he felt an oddly gratifying sense of purpose. As he peered down at his sleeping beauty, he felt little guilt. She was his. She was the fruit of his loins. He made her. And if he made her, he could do with her as he wished. He reached out to stroke her soft blonde hair. She shifted in her bed and he quickly withdrew his hand and hurried out of her room.

His heart racing, he crawled back into bed, unintentionally waking his wife.

“You okay?” Kathy Greyson asked groggily, yawning.

“Just a bad dream,” he replied, turned away from her and went to sleep.

Michael repeated his attempt three nights later. This time he pulled Hillary’s blanket down to her waist. She was sleeping on her side with her back to him. He reached over and touched her breast. She didn’t move. He wanted to pull up her nightshirt, fondle those soft, fledgling breasts in his hand, but he didn’t dare...not tonight. He had made some progress, had touched her. In time, he would gain the courage to do more. With his erection straining against his pajama pants, he walked back to his bedroom. He didn’t want to wake Kathy. He lay in bed quietly, thinking of his beautiful daughter as he touched himself.